


Amor unus septem

by twistmyleg



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Holiday Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, Poetry, Therion (Octopath Traveler) Needs a Hug, all the travelers are there but not tagged, the travelers equals octocult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 07:10:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19146061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistmyleg/pseuds/twistmyleg
Summary: Therion's impulsive decision to express his sentiments leads him to many reminders, above all the value of bonds.





	Amor unus septem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spicanao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicanao/gifts).



> This fic is a birthday gift to spicanao/Naomi as she is one of the most amazing writers I've come across and she is an inspiration to me and many others our writing (*cough* a Therion attribute from a certain scene in EoC I may or may not have adopted the headcanon of). She is also the sweetest human being ever and I just wanted to show appreciation for her! Because we share a love of hurt/comfort, here's some of that!

_The 12th annual Day of Eternal Bonds Ending Bash is tomorrow following afternoon festivities! Free refreshments and platters created by the community to be served! Our main event: the talent showcase reprising for the fifth year! Whether you’re a singer, dancer, or have a unique talent, come out and celebrate the bonds created with friends and family!_

Two different arms situate on each of Therion’s shoulders; Tressa’s being more poignant pushing against his neck. In her curiosity, her head practically collides against his. “So Alfyn really wasn’t joking about the talent show! And here I thought it was telling stories around a campfire!” Noticing his gaze, she snickers loud in his ear. “And it seems Therion’s smitten with the poster. Just look at how wide his eyes are, Prim! Only time I’ve seen that is when that dragon descended in the Whitewood!” This shakes him out of his reverie, shrugging off the arms as Primrose’s snickers resound with hers. His gaze drops to the dried grass, autumn air brushing slowly around him carrying their amusement.

“Smitten’s a strong term. Best to be associated with you and your fondness for leaves. Not for viewing a local tavern poster.” Tressa’s laughter diminishes, although replaced with a knowing look and crossing her arms wide across her chest.

“Are you sure? It could be just me, but you seemed quite interested.” Her eyes light up in a mischievous glimmer, matching her step forward against his foot. “Are you interested in participating? Do thieves have a talent other than picking pockets for treasure?” 

“That’s enough, Tress,” Alfyn hollers from the bridge they just crossed, surrounded by their other companions bearing expressions of either disapproval or curiosity. Tressa’s lips form a small pout as she retreats a few steps back, the others filling in the space in her wake. Upon Alfyn’s arrival, his expression forms something resembling admonishment. “Ain’t nice to call people out like that.” 

“It was only in jest,” she retorts, but trails off as Cyrus clicks his tongue. Therion immediately shies away to avoid the earful.

“The Day of Eternal Bonds is quite important within the church, yet it’s lack of presence in Southern Orsterra would suggest little celebration. I believed Saintsbridge was the only city to keep the ancient traditions.” He leans his head toward Alfyn with inquisitive eyes. “Correct me if I am mistaken, but Clearbrook does not always keep up with the church’s modern teachings, no?” 

“Sure, but that’s no reason we can’t celebrate the occasion our way.” He motions toward the shops surrounding the tavern and throughout the town, each displaying different products cultivated in their own fields. The florist carries bouquets of wildflowers and others coinciding with the season. Ripe fruits, vegetables, grains, and herbs dot different markets, each with marked down prices. “We like to interpret the festival as a celebration of the harvest. The community all comes together to prepare for winter, and at the end toast to a job well done. The talent showcase is one way to bring us under one roof.” 

“That is a wonderful way to celebrate,” Ophilia chimes beside him with a smile. “Positive bonds in all forms is the primary focus of the holiday, ranging from families to communities. Do your celebrations allow visitors?” He nods with an ecstatic grin.

“S’why I wanted to bring y’all around Clearbrook ‘fore we traveled elsewhere: to celebrate not only the bonds with my townsfolk, but the bonds between us! Even if the main festivities have passed, I wanna show my appreciation, corny though ya might call it.” His hand reaches behind his neck, scratching bashfully. “I was plannin’ on participatin’ in the showcase myself, actually.” Tressa releases an intrigued noise, to which Therion represses a scoff and retreats further back until he is behind the group, gaze beginning to focus on the inn across the bridge.

“Really? What do you plan to do?” Her eyes light up again, this time resembling excitement for an opportunity. “Is there a prize to be won?” 

“Nah. Spendin’ a night surrounded by people you’ve bonded with is reward enough.” To her first question, he winks in pair with a mischievous grin. “And you’ll have to see for yourself come tomorrow evenin’ about my plans. I’ve known what I’ve wanted to do for a long while. Just have to make sure everythin’ in workin’ order.” Tressa releases an extraordinarily loud whine alongside a stomp crunching the grass beneath her. 

“But I’m not patient enough to wait a whole day!” Primrose snickers, striding toward Alfyn and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. 

“Perhaps H’aanit would make you her apprentice. Patience has many effects on and off the battlefield.” Tressa’s gawk is good enough for her as she gives Alfyn a warm smile. Therion treks further away, dragging his footsteps on the muddied path and staining his worn shoes taken from a woodworker in this very town. The dirt streaks on the cobblestone like blood, drying quickly against its cool surface as his gaze drifts to his distorted reflection in the water. “Whatever you do, we will support you one-hundred percent. _All_ of us.” Pink blooms on Alfyn’s cheeks.

“Shucks,  I’ll do my best!” Therion cannot help the immediate scowl in response. _Naive to trust them so wholeheartedly._ He dismisses the thought, however, for fear of being hypocritical. “And if any of y’all wanna participate, you’re welcome to! We aren’t picky about talent quality. We’re open to visitors learnin’ the customs!”

“Intriguing...perhaps I’ll share a dance? Depending on what you do, perhaps we could collaborate…”

“I shall try as well,” Ophilia adds, drawing attention. “So long as they have the instrument I need…” Alfyn gives a response but Therion becomes out of earshot trickling into the inn, slipping past the languid innkeep at the front desk and directly toward his shared room in the darkest corner. Considering the depth of the conversation, Therion did not expect Cyrus to reappear until later hours. Even then, Cyrus was never one to prod into Therion’s affairs with his own ruffling his robes equally. It provides him a rare opportunity amidst the commotion their group creates in each town. Despite his hesitance and spinning thoughts, he would take it as he fumbles with the keys.

Immediately upon entrance he kicks off his shoes to one corner and arrives at the desk in the other, two meters from the foot of Cyrus’ bed. With an eyeroll and grunt, he quickly makes work of placing his immeasurable amount of tomes beside the chair, most transcribed in an ancient language Therion could not begin to decipher. However, he saves a tome used for note-taking, alongside his treasured quill taken from his office. Despite having privacy, Therion still gives a quick glance of his surroundings to reassure himself before quietly adjusting into the well-worn wooden chair that cracks under his weight.

Cautiously he flips through each page, passing different notes and sketches of places they visited and ruins Cyrus continued to exhume trouble from before settling on a blank page toward the end of the tome. His quivering fingers take up the quill, hovering it just above the paper. The excess ink from the tip forms an excess bead, staining the page slowly as he hesitates to write a word. What point has he in doing this? How long has it been since he wrote something, let alone eligible? Only Aeber knows. Left behind were scarce memories of nights spent under paltry structures, using tree branches to make out letters in the dirt, all for transcribing the plans for their next heist. Despite his praises of his writing for a tea leaf, Darius eventually took up that responsibility with venomous rage. When questioned, he explained since they were his ideas, he should be the one writing them out, furthering his own skills. 

It was another overt way he exercised control, and enough to deter Therion from writing again. Only after his warmth was stripped away did he make another attempt, for a tea leaf needed everything he could get to survive. He perused libraries of scholars and aristocrats in the shadows, copying their words on alley walls, but always left the books behind to stay lightweight. While it granted him a new asset for heists, at best it was simple words for basic deception, or a purchase agreement at the inn. Writing his name had always been a struggle. 

What makes him believe he could write out these complex sentiments of eternal bonds? If Darius saw no use in this asset for him, what good would it do for them? At best they would be scrawled words representing loose ideas. This falls along a line of irrational thinking and Therion knows it, but cannot ignore. The line always traces back to primal fears developed long before he met Darius: of isolation and trust. Monsters disguised as people claimed to be supportive when serving their best interests, but abjecting them once successful, no matter the time spent. He’s seen it time and again in childhood and adolescence; it’s shaped his worldview. 

And despite months spent walking across the continent with these seven strangers, he reminds himself of the reason they began as such: traveling to the same city. Only there did they agree to assist with each other’s issues, building bonds they could not ignore. Encouragement fostering doubt seeped inside, creating questions with slow answers. But they still had their individual tasks, and once solved, what stopped them from departing? Especially as Therion procrastinates for his own - the Ravuses could live a while without their _precious_ treasure - what is his outlook once they finish? Isolation, just as he started. 

After finally discovering trust again, the thought of losing it is too much to bear.

He realizes after some time these sentiments found their way on the page, scattered messily on and off the lines in what appeared as a rough poem, despite Therion’s lack of literature knowledge. It is nowhere close to something Cyrus could conjure, nor as elegant as the hymns of the church, but it is eligible enough, despite his spastic movements smearing the ink along the paper. Careful to hide his tracks, he tears the paper as close to the binding as he could, quickly folding it to fit snugly in his pocket without creating a bulge. With a final grunt, he rises to organize the desk exactly as it was when he arrived: tomes towering above him; quill slightly ajar in its bottle; tome of notes set awaiting for use again.

As he drags himself toward his bed, his pocket immediately becomes weighted. Like a dragonstone rested within the cloth, filled with unknown importance and impact. As such, it slams him into the mattress, back facing the ceiling, limbs sprawled and sensitive to the homemade quilt below him, likely handsewn at the dressmaker’s. His eyes become trained on the peeling wallpaper in his corner, forcing himself to relax to create a passable state of slumber. And although it fools Cyrus, he remains awake long after the professor drifts into easy slumber. The weight becomes impossible to ignore, almost whispering to him thoughts his mind replays all night.

If writing his sentiments is the first obstacle, expressing them in speech is another. And facing the consequences is the worst of them all.

 

* * *

 

_Alfyn is the only one in Clearbrook who does not judge for talent._

Therion could not help but note this as he watches Meryl’s parents bow out to soft applause on the makeshift stage in the center of the tavern. The barkeep hastily ushers them offstage to present the next performer, face indifferent. The couple had sung an old folkloric song of the Riverlands, Therion recognizing its origins from Saintsbridge where the river is idolized as a symbol of life. The adults gave them warm smiles and support, but one glance at Zeph’s sister and her friend revealed the truth. Nina had dozed off, with her scholarly friend Lily poking at her shyly to bring her back.

In line to perform, Alfyn gives him a nervous smile and hearty wave. Therion reciprocates with an eye roll, but a small wave as well. Ophilia and Primrose each fiddle with their costumes, unaware of this exchange. Beside him the others excitedly wonder about their performance, ranging from Cyrus’ hypothesis of artistic history to H’aanit’s embrace of natural bonds. Tressa, being more interested in the atmosphere, pokes Therion again to lighten the scowl on his face with each passing performance. But he cannot restrain it. He knows the trio will garner raucous applause: Primrose’s dancing will swoon every person with its grace. And with Alfyn as their homegrown apothecary, his previous charity will grant him wide support. Ophilia is a sweet pumpkin who brings out the kindness in people. No doubt the others will give them a standing ovation.

But what of him? It did not matter so much from the townsfolk - Olberic was already forced to restore his reputation as his first visit saw him a bit cocky to drain a backwoods town of treasure. But from those who have embedded themselves in his sentimentality...would they understand? Most of his words to them were hidden behind a facade. Will they take these ones as malicious? Can they take him seriously? Is he important to them? Or just the thief grabbing them special treasures from the purple chests? 

Darius made his answer clear. And despite the tempting warmth they offer, their true answers could easily be subtle. Just as his true sentiments are.

As the evening passes, the papers weighs on him further. His fingers trembling under the table become still with heaviness. Dread seeps into his blood, restricting its flow and chilling him to the core. His gaze, once darting sporadically for onlookers, remains locked on the stage, each performer indistinguishable from the last. The lukewarm applause drowns into monotone nonsense. Dread is not new to him, creeping in at important moments to render him incapable of action. To depict him a failure. He never learned how to stop its negative feedback. It rises knowing what he will do, expecting the answer he’s always received. It’s never felt more cold than it has now.

“Hey, sleepyhead! Alf, Prim, and Phili are performing!”

Therion’s head shoots up from his hands, gaze finally recognizing varied forms of the trio taking their positions onstage. Alfyn and Ophilia are situated on opposite sides with stools as Primrose takes the center. Her normal red clothing is replaced with a flowing white dress with green lining, orange flowers blooming along the edges to imitate a meadow. Alfyn and Ophilia remain in their normal attire, although Alfyn forewent his vest stained with blood and other bodily fluids. At each of their sides is an instrument: Alfyn adjusting the strings on his cello and Ophilia inspecting her flute. 

“Prim looks so beautiful…” Tressa fawns next to him. “Wonder where she got the dress. It’s nothing like her other costumes.” Her attention turns to Therion, poking him in the shoulder. “Think I could wear an apothecary outfit like that?” He scoffs, but it lacks any bite. 

“You’d prefer anything with a vest over that and you know it. What was it about merchants always needing to be prepared to chase their customers?” She pouts as the crowd falls into silence around them.

“A dress and vest work well together! Besides, I’d still have plenty of room to hunt you down.”

“Quiet,” Olberic whispers from his position next to Cyrus, also closing the tome containing notes regarding how Clearbrook celebrated this holiday, much to the professor’s complaints. 

Primrose’s first steps join Alfyn’s opening notes. The cello was definitely made in the Riverlands, for the notes are deeper and flow calm as the river. Her twirls match his movements - slow and whimsical - and reach different widths with the addition of Ophilia’s flute. At first glance she appears to stroll amongst some flowers. But it is more than that: her movements vary between twirls, capturing different styles from the continent. She stalks in low tribal movements of the Woodlands, then reaches high with tighter ones of the Highlands, almost as if trying to converge them.

The tone changes to demonstrate trials and tribulations, in which the flute fades for a short moment as Primrose’s movements become wild and erratic, depicting a battle in line with Alfyn’s notes. As he plays, Therion notes how his grip remains strong and gaze focused on his task, becoming one with the music he produces. Ophilia’s flute returns, notes tighter as Primrose’s movements transition into a unique style taking the best of each region’s cultural elements, yet rising and falling to the highs and lows of battle. It soon peaks, with the cello increasing in pace but fading into the background again to give the flute focus. 

In another change of tone, Primrose distinguishes her movements from which region their originate. As if on a count, she switches them from region to region whilst circling around the center, pouring her heart into the air although intangible. When the music relapses and her second circle begins, her movements merge again into its unique style, edging closer toward her creation with a delighted smile. The flute peaks again in harmony with the cello’s rapid movements to conclude their song, both rising and falling as Primrose twirls into the middle, movements suggesting exploration and the unknown. Her pose - normally extravagant to display her beauty - is simplistic as Alfyn finishes out the piece. 

It is clear what they conveyed: their convergence on many crossroads, countless battles, and its results invisible in tangible form, but within heart and soul forever treasured. It told their story.

A cheesy concept, sure, but it riles the audience to a standing ovation, as Therion expects. Tressa delivers a sailor’s whistle piercing Therion’s ear, and Olberic’s claps easily drown out the others. Primrose bows gracefully as with routine, while the more flustered Ophilia and Alfyn rise to embrace the audience’s support. Different shouts float in their direction. _What a marvelous performance! I was so moved!_ comes from one end of the tavern. _We’re proud of you Greengrass! You and your friends are outstanding!_ stands out from the other. They all blend into one big celebratory noise, dousing each of the trio’s cheeks in pink but curving their lips into wide smiles.

Therion has to wonder what it is like to be surrounded by such affections. Such warmth long forgotten, or perhaps never shared to begin with.

Being the last in line to perform, people promptly scatter from their seats, many moving to congratulate the trio as they descend from the stage in the direction of their companions. But Zeph immediately engulfs Alfyn in a hug as Nina and Lily fawn over Primrose’s costume. Only Ophilia arrives back with them, all by now standing to greet her. Tressa immediately climbs over their table and embraces her, practically knocking both of them onto the floor. Therion takes the opportunity to stand, catching any glasses she tips over. The weight in his pocket becomes more apparent, working in sync with his increasing dread. It is now or never, and the thought only increases his fear. 

“You were great, Phili! All of you!” Tressa screeches as she retreats from Ophilia, arms akimbo. “Why didn’t you tell us you played the flute?!” Ophilia giggles in turn, eyes bright as the Flame with excitement as the others cluster to hear her story. Therion discovers it is easy to slip into the bustling crowd, tiptoeing toward the stage as the conversation drifts in the tavern air. 

“It has been more of a private hobby,” she admits, cheeks still flushed with pink. “Although I did occasionally  play hymns during times of prayer. Those we guide find the melodies soothes their worries.” 

“Still, I figured you more a pianist,” Cyrus objects as Theion arrives at the stage, breath erratic and dread shackling his joints in hesitation. There is no warmth here; just pure ice. The same Alfyn produces and he swears Darius has an affinity for. The few steps he could take feel weighted by boulders; his mind immediately imagines ones from a particularly scorching Cliftlands day passing him by too quickly. They echo around him on the wooden planks, even if they did not bother the others. On the stage the air is suffocating, and his mind screams for him to get off, get off, _get off, this will lead to betrayal, what propels you to still do this?_

In defiance, he reaches into his pocket, viscous like honey, pulling out the paper and slowly unfolding it to reveal its contents. 

In these agonizing few seconds, Tressa becomes the first to notice, eyes darting across the tavern until they lock on his. Lips pursed, brow furrowed, she points a finger. “Hey, what’s Therion doing up there?” The others follow her gaze, expressions ranging in a spectrum from concern to amusement.

“His skills proven true. Did we not noticen his absence?” 

“Perhaps with similarity to appearing suddenly in my quarters yesternight?” 

Celebrations and whistles quiet to murmurs and glares, including Alfyn’s jaw agape in surprise and tightened ones from those who still do not appreciate his presence. Old Alec with the cough gives him a disapproving scowl, reminding him of his failure to retrieve a golden axe with tremendous power. The barkeep seems ready to yank him offstage. Meryl’s parents hold cautious glances after he informed their daughter of the truth, separating their family temporarily. And as expected, Zeph shows an inquisitive eye out of caution for his friend, with Nina and Lily giving curious glances on either side of him.

Therion clutches his paper now with both hands, hoping it will provide a drop of warmth in a place seemingly deceptive with who it is gifted to. His gaze drops to his writing, no more ineligible than from yesterday as it wavers and distorts, unable to face any of his companions for fear their expressions will contort in a negative fashion. After all, thieves are not known for speaking out, for it results in death more often than not. Silence is golden, allowing them to thrive. It is irrational again, but will reciting this lead him closer to death? 

When questioning Darius, he came to despise the unknown. And despite this, he knows he must face it again. Although his last breath is suffocating, lips trembling and voice stuttering, he begins to decipher his words. “...Amor...unus septem.” The paper crinkles in his grasp. “By, uh, me.” 

The silence is deafening.

 

“ _At fated crossroads_

_Mind winds and twists._

_Over humiliating task and_

_Random strangers to assist._ ”

 

He hopes it does not offend them, swallowing back his rising bile before continuing. 

 

“ _Under shield I hid_

_Never speaking, only hissed_

_Until time passed, and now_

_Same strangers will be missed._ ”

 

Sweat rolls down his neck, likely glistening under the dimmed light. But he presses forward.

 

“ _Scared now to lose them,_

_Expecting them to depart_

_Past journey’s end for all._

_Terminal words they will impart,_

_Ending all but my own_

_Missing them...with broken heart._ ”

 

When he finishes, it is colder than before. And the silence roars.

Without hesitation he shoves the paper back in his pocket, mumbling a quiet _sorry to waste your time_ before darting off the stage, bypassing different townsfolk to reach the exit. It seems too much to ask, but he needs the air outside to be warmer than in the tavern. But it is not, for autumn leaves passing by remind him of the deep freeze of the Riverlands, sending small shivers to wrack his frame. Pumpkin ale still wafts in the air, and Therion knows he needs to escape to a quiet space to decompress. His mind provides no better answer than for his feet to carry him toward the town’s entrance. Not too far to be caught alone against the froggens; not too close to be caught quickly.

His shoes do not muddy along the paved dirt, for it dried as the air cooled. Each breath he takes sends ice down his throat, chilling the adrenaline in his veins. His gaze remains blurred, yet there is no time to clear it. Only when he finds a neutral space will he address these issues. Even then, he will need to break the irrational circle of thinking: _what have you done? You’ve ruined it all. What makes you think they would understand?_

They always found a way to get in his mind and heart. Surely they could do it again? _Sentimental fool._

But... _But what does it matter? You always deserved the cold._

Reprieve finally arrives at the crossroads between the Riverlands and Cliftlands, at the wooden post directing travelers toward each respective town. Here it is surrounded by blackberry bushes ripe for picking and ready to be converted into delectables. He finds himself slowing down, heavy hand sliding up his neck and through his hair frantically to calm his nerves. Finally the silence softens, his senses returning slowly to really take in his surroundings, his situation, his thoughts. He keeps his gaze focused on the blackberries as a temporary distraction, tempted to devour them to quench his dry throat. But he resists, exhaling a long-held sigh and leaning back to rock on his heels. 

His first instinct is to formulate a plan for two reasons: his poem could have backfired, and he is not about to let others decide his fate. It would be made clear Therion decides on isolation, much as it wrenches his heart. Following this cooldown session, he would grab his sparse belongings from the inn and make off to Bolderfall. Much as he despises them, the Ravuses could provide him at least a few day’s hospitality for his troubles, no? Beyond that, what would he do? Though he tries to deny it, he knows the answer: he would return to how he lived prior to his travels. Perform heists and pass along the streets as a ghost forever shrouded in the cold. His mind agrees, encouraging him to stop wasting time. But months of travel accustomed him to a lifestyle different from what he knew. Maybe it was not completely carefree, but to go most of a day without anxiety...it was more spectacular than he could have ever imagined.

And would it be so easy to say goodbye? If this was at the start of their journey, without a doubt. But if he wakes up in an inn room alone, he knows he would immediately search for a commotion of noise from the dining hall, likely created by Tressa sharing her latest crazy dream. And as he would walk in, he would seek their familiar routine: H’aanit by the stovetop dishing out food; Cyrus on a tangent regarding a new fact he acquired; Primrose debating its source and origin; Ophilia leading them through a quick grace before consumption; Olberic devouring most of his plate within minutes and begging alongside Linde for seconds; Alfyn giving compliments to the chef and reassuring everyone’s night went well, eventually reaching him. And he would respond with a familiar eye roll but hiding a smile in his scarf. It’s certainly not as warm as it could be, but it’s tepid. It’s more than he ever had and he likes it.

This and their many routines, Therion realizes, are consequences of greater decisions. He let them into his life to travel to one location. A simple decision.

Just as it was to participate in the showcase. He wished to share, vague though it was, that their bonds meant everything to him. He may fear the consequences ahead, but it becomes clear they would be exacerbated if Therion takes off on this night. Fear and hesitation are sentiments people are allowed to feel, even if his mind had been trained otherwise and still currently clung to. Even if the consequences put him in a tight situation, he would find a way forward. Sure, it would hamper his trust for some time. But if he’s gained anything, it is that those betrayed know the true meaning of trust. 

(Much as Cordelia claims to teach him this, he knows it well before then. He fancies hearing it from those he really trusts rather than as a consignation). 

With part of the weight lifted, Therion takes in a breath and slowly reverses back toward Clearbrook, senses adjusting for signs of change. Maybe his body adjusted to the freeze, but it is no longer as chilly. Most shops are still darkened, exposed flowers on the wayside revealing small crystals as they swayed in the breeze. Froggens croak in the distance alongside fewer warriors wasps preparing for hibernation. As he turns the corner, he notices there are few people strolling toward their homes. The tavern’s noise level had only risen slightly since his departure: a few clinking glasses; soft grunting and whispers; wooden chairs scraping against the floor; a footstep every so often. His fingers begin to tremble again, twitching and ducking into his pockets, and his mind races at the thought of confronting them. But a quick reminder of what he fights for snaps him back, and so he pushes open the door as quiet as possible.

But what would he expect from a town where everyone knows everything?

Immediately most eyes are on him, but with noticeably less severity. Old Alec’s eyes are still disapproving, but Therion notes a hint of loneliness. Perhaps he tried to solve it by moving near his granddaughter? Meryl’s parents discuss quietly at a corner table, glancing at him with neutral expressions. The barkeep pays no heed as he tends to customers seeking a pleasurable drink. Zeph’s eyes are on someone else, with Nina and Lily cavorting where the stage once was. And his companions…

“Hug attack!”

It’s eager and deafening, and Therion finds himself jolting back into a strong set of arms, just as the tavern breaks out into soft applause.

No, it is not just one set. Three of them with different strengths for different weapons wrap around him; one behind his shoulders and two on each side. A feisty set wraps around his stomach, squeezing tight as a frost bear with no intent to release. Under his ribs come two more sets: one moves with grace and careful easing in with the other more frail and shy to move closer, wanting to be respectful. And of course, he cannot forget the most calloused hands wrapping around his wraist, hugging the lightest of them all for confusion of social comforts. 

He knows them. He can distinguish each and every one. His surprise melts almost instantly and despite his feet bouncing back instinctually, he cannot move. 

“What are…?” 

“We love you too, Therion,” comes Alfyn from behind, voice drenched in kindness he no longer perceives as saccharine. “And we ain’t gonna leave your side just ‘cause we accomplished our goals.” 

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, but we’re quite the pains in the ass,” Tressa reminds him with a lower volume and hint of sarcasm, but giggles it away shortly. “If one of us is unhappy, all of us barge in to make it better. For everyone. Including you.” 

“Language, Tressa,” Olberic chides, but dismisses the thought. “But she’s right. We would never have a reason to abandon you.” 

“We understand trust is not a sentiment you easily give out,” Primrose interrupts, voice more genuine than Therion’s heard it. “Your attitude is your way of protecting yourself. It’s a natural instinct.” 

“But we’re glad you have faith in us and do not always feel the need to hide,” Ophilia chimes with a gentle smile. “And we will always have faith in you.”

“Though, I never figured you for a poet,” Cyrus throws in with a quick hum. “That explains the torn page in the back of my tome, too...and how my quill was off center by approximately--”

“Professor, now is not the time for thy lecture,” H’aanit reprimands. Linde growls in approval near her.

“It was merely an observation, my dear. I would not criticize his poem. It was well-structured with a nice rhythm and following the standard acro--”

“Did any of your tutors teach you to look for the meaning in poetry?!” Tressa practically screams, pulling back slightly to catch Therion’s eyes. They are lit in something different than he has seen: sincerity. “We are a family, all of us. No matter how many squabbles or long-winded debates over nothing we find ourselves in, or the hardships we face, we will always be there for each other.” One of her fingers pokes his stomach sternly. “That’s its meaning. Not just some nicely structure piece of literature to annotate.” 

All the while the applause does not cease. Scrutinizing gazes morph into neutral ones and some into the smiles given to the trio. There are some shouts about his _inspiring_ performance, though too far to decipher. Although it never reaches a raucous level, it is still overwhelming. The noise roars in his ears, threatening to deafen him. But it is not important. It never was. He does not share bonds with them that would be eternal. It is with the people standing by him; who would hug him until they were sure the message stuck in his brain. His heart flutters rapidly, vision blurry again, fingers trembling their normal dance at the frenzy in his mind, lips ajar and short breaths with words on the tip of his tongue…

...but instead, tears roll down in their place. And his head dips low into his scarf instinctually to mask himself, hoping no one sees what passes as embarrassment, but mostly gratitude.

But of course they would notice. Alfyn and Tressa hug him even tighter and Cyrus draws circles on his back, although awkward and small. Ophilia hums a lullaby used to calm those in distress, and Primrose encourages him with positive thoughts. H’aanit holds a hand to his head, giving soft pats as an older sibling would. Linde’s head presses against his leg amongst the cluster, purring her support. And Olberic does what any father does best, shushing him in a gentle manner that makes everything seem alright. 

And for the first time, it is not scorching, nor chilling.

Perhaps this is what it feels like to stand on that stage?

...Not quite. But it is his warmth, and he would treasure it eternal. 

**Author's Note:**

> "Amor unus septem" = seven love one. Google translate can fight me. 
> 
> Again, happy birthday Naomi! You are super fantastic and just *flapping hands* thank you for all you do for this community! (I like to think of the travelers like the octocult, so endless support!)
> 
> Bonus if you caught onto the poem's structure.


End file.
